Seven Sundays
by lady cambria
Summary: She was there when he fell through the veil. By all accounts, Sirius Black is dead. But vivid hallucinations of him torment the young mind of Ginny Weasley.. and soon she's on a desperate mission to save him from the depths of Hell: before it's too late.
1. Prologue

_London, England_

_Quarter 'Til Midnight_

_19 April, 1960_

The brownstone deep in the heart of London was nearing three-hundred years of age, and to be perfectly frank, it was beginning to look it, too. But that was not the main concern of its occupants, who merely wanted protection from Muggles. The house was Unplottable, it had anti-Muggle wards and many security charms placed all over it. Nearing midnight, any of the normal passersby would never see it, even though each and every window was ablaze with lights. But the Mediwitch who specialized in midwifery found it just fine, as she was a certified graduate from Hogwarts and straight out to the house from St. Mungo's.

The man who had answered the door when she knocked was tall, with an aristocratic air about him and in his features, including his deep gray eyes that seemed to bore through her, as though searching for something, like her bloodlines. He had answered the door in standard attire, black robes with silver adornments; he had two large rings on, one of them bearing an ancient crest, the ring itself so old that it looked as if it belonged in the Middle Ages section of a history museum, the other just a maze of snakes. He hadn't spoken a word, just led her down the hall and up a staircase to a bedroom.

That same man was now pacing the hallway outside that bedroom door, from the stairs to the ground floor, to the attic door, back and forth past the bedroom where his wife laid on the bed, screaming in pain every few minutes. The only other visitor to the hall after the midwife Mediwitch had been the little house-elf, a wedding gift from a close friend, who had taken it upon himself (and rightly so) to clean up the flood where the lady of house's water had broken.

The Mediwitch had taken over the situation entirely too easily, the man didn't like how she had rushed into the bedroom and closed the door, then performed a Lockout Charm so he could not enter or even stick his head in. He was overwrought by his wife's labored screams, which came regardless of how many soothing sounds the Mediwitch made. The man continued to pace, grimacing slightly every now and again, his long robes billowing out behind him, then resettling around his ankles as he slowed to pivot near the top of the stairs and begin his trek toward the attic door again. He sighed heavily, impatiently, and as he reached the attic door, his wife let out a particularly anguished scream that made him wince. As her scream died out it was succeeded by another, very different cry.

A baby's cry, bringing the man to a pause, still facing the attic door. The cry finally registered in the man's mind for what it was, and he whirled around and raced down the hall to where the midwife now stood in the bedroom doorway with a smile, one hand on the doorknob and the other holding a black doctor's satchel. As he turned into the room, the father threw her a small coin purse containing six Sickles and ten Knuts.

The father came into the room to find his wife, pale but glowing magnificently, reclining in the bed with a bundle of blankets in her arms. The woman was beautiful, with long, flowing black hair scraped off her forehead and rippling down her back and over the pillows, her pale skin clear and the apples in her cheeks tinged with the pinkness of excitement. Her face was oval-shaped, set with dark eyes framed by long lashes, offset by both an elegant nose and a red bow-shaped mouth.

The room was already clean, his wife in a white nightgown and the bed in white sheets - the midwife must have waved her wand quite fast - and so was the newborn, clean and wrapped in a soft white blanket made of cashmere. The mother handed the child to the father, who cradled the infant with such care it was almost as though he were carrying the most sacred relic of the known world.

"Is it a must?" The wife asked reluctantly, as though she already knew the answer to a time-worn question but couldn't resist trying to get a different answer just once more.

"It is. It is a family tradition, and I will not be the one to break it in this ancient and most noble house," answered the husband, tersely but not angrily.

She sighed, defeated and too tired to ask again, then gave in with a new question, "Tonight or tomorrow morning, then?"

"As soon as you are ready to travel," replied her husband.

"I think sooner is wiser. No use in keeping him waiting," she mused almost regretfully.

"Then you get dressed and we shall go. Is it safe to Apparate with the child, or shall we go the other way?"

"It is safe. Please, wrap the child in the black woolen blanket on the foyer table. The white is too noticeable." The man left his wife to change, still carefully carrying the child. Cradling the infant in the crook of his left arm, he walked down the stairs to the foyer, where he wrapped the baby in the black blanket, concealing as much of the white blankets as possible.

His wife joined him in the foyer, looking beautiful as always in her favorite set of moss green satin robes. She put on her cloak, and then took the child while he did the same, then arranged her cloak to fall over the bundle of blankets. The couple left the house and walked quickly down the road, the man guiding her with a hand placed gently at the small of her back. They briskly continued three blocks up before turning into the entry of a neighborhood park on their right. They stopped by a lamppost that was not working, and closed their eyes. Their faces contorted into looks of severe concentration and then, with two tiny, almost inaudible little pops, they vanished.

_Paris, France_

_Quarter Past_

_20 April, 1960_

The dark alley the couple and their child reappeared in reeked of week-old trash, sweat and mould. The wife grimace, her elegant nose wrinkling and in turn scrunching he rest of her face. The newborn under her cloak let out a whimper. She shushed the child quietly as her husband guided her out to the cobblestone road.

There was not a soul in sight, in any direction. It was better that way. There were no lights save for the streetlamps. From a pocket in his cloak, the husband withdrew a small object that resembled a Zippo lighter. He smoothly flipped the top and clicked it six times - the six closest streetlamps went out - the Put-Outer went back into his pocket and this time he took out a mottled gray hand, a human hand.

It had been removed halfway up the forearm, the hand clamped into a fist and fitted with a NeverMelt candle. There was no chance of the candle falling out; the yellowed fingernails, grown out to three inches long, had been filed into sharp points and pierced into the hand's palm. The Hand of Glory lit itself when the man held it by the forearm right below the wrist.

The wife, coddling her child, felt herself being guided through the darkness by her husband, though only he could see the path illuminated by the Hand. They continued at a slower pace than in London, not completely sure of the way, taking care on the uneven cobblestones. The man led her down a smaller alley, which sloped downward until they came to a gate about twenty feet below street level. The slab stone walls were damp and mossy, very slippery. In between the stones, little rivers trickled down from above. They stood in a few centimeters of water, which seeped into their expensive albeit insubstantial shoes. The man checked the padlock on the gate, below a sign that read,

_Attention ! Les catacombes sont fermé par les ordres des police ! Entrez á la risque de empêchement de loi, les dommages sérieux ou mort !_

"Attention! The catacombs are closed by police orders! Enter at risk of impediment of law, serious injury or death!" As advertised, the padlock was indeed locked. The man took out his wand, an Ollivander's creation, elm and dragon heartstring, 93⁄4 inches long. A swish of the wand and the padlock clicked open. He removed the lock and chain, re-pocketed his wand and opened the gate. Holding the Hand of Glory properly again, it relit itself and the man continued leading his wife into the dark catacombs.

The wife took out her wand from its safe pocket in her cloak, to which she whispered "Lumos!" illuminating the underground passageway softly but not faintly. She almost tripped over a skeleton that was decidedly inhuman but still two-legged, nearly dropping her hour-old infant, but the man turned at the scuffle of bones against floor and caught her, standing her upright and reminding her to be cautious.

A mouse squeaked and scampered away as they passed by it; the walls were covered with marked in all different ancient languages - French, Germanic, Latin, Old English, and even in Ancient Runes. In some places the floor was stained a rusty brown, and the air above these spots smelled gorily of dried blood and rotting corpses. More than once the young woman nearly gagged near one of these spots, wanting to retch but swallowing gracefully and continuing on.

He husband led the way through the labyrinth, down twisting passages, making turns at what seemed to be random. The air grew heavier and staler, and the ground gave way to a downward slope. A wet chill settled over them, and the walls once again grew mossy and damp; little rivers were trickling past in small canals dug on either side of the floor next to the walls. As they continued on the reek of death grew stronger, to where it just wasn't in stained spots, but all over. The stains themselves then grew more frequent until they were more common than empty stone wall.

"What madness took place here?" the woman whispered so quietly her husband didn't even hear. Underfoot an unstable carpet of bones began to increasingly resemble those of the human skeleton, crunching with each step they took. The bones began to be piled in stacks to either side, making the passage narrower and narrower; more than once, the young mother knocked over a stack, disturbing the eerie silence that followed the couple with a resounding crash. Involuntarily, as they rounded a corner that led to the final passageway, the light from the woman's wand dimmed until it was just barely there, leaving her almost completely in the dark. Her breathing became more labored, both from the strenuous walk and the impeding darkness.

The final tunnel was filled with bones waist high, some of the nearest still hung with pieces of rotting flesh and muscle. The young woman was gasping for breaths through her mouth, trying not to take in air through her nose. The infant awoke, and, taking one whiff of air, began whimpering - when the mother did not soothe the child, the whimpers became incessant crying, prompting the father to take the child from his wife. Infant in one arm and Hand of Glory in the other hand, he instructed his wife to clear the pathway with her wand. She swept bones out of their path with little flicks of her wrist.

They had reached the door. The woman shivered uncontrollably at the sight of it as she took her child back from her husband. The door was maybe a meter by a meter square, with no handle. It was made of an impervious material, yet this was not the frightening part that wracked the woman's nerves. It was the set of handprints adorning it, ending in claws that had scraped a centimeter into the face of the door, handprints made in the blood of the first unfortunate to sign a piece of his soul to the Devil. One of her husband's descendants from centuries, possibly a millennium, before. Underneath the prints was an inscription written in Old English, reading, quite simply,

_Deofol_

_Thine Gatewaye to Helle_

Her husband raised his left hand and placed it on the corresponding handprint. Swallowing hard, he whispered, "Devil, I bring you my child for Horcruxing." He tore his hand away and began wringing it; the palm was scalded and already blistered, the fingertips charred black, the fingernails melted and deformed, the skin underneath the nails a deep purple. The door swung open and a wave of heat rolled out like a gust of wind, reddening the couple's cheeks - the mother clutched her infant to her bosom, protecting the child's face from it - so hot it dried out their eye sockets, nearly singed off their eyebrows and swept their cloaks back over their shoulders, held on only by the fastenings to their robes.

The man climbed in first, then took the child and helped his wife up; the place was scalding hot, a veritable furnace. An unknown creature stood before them, greatly resembling the god Pan; a ram by his legs and cloven hooves, a man by his upper and a bat or dragon by his great black wings. Atop his head was a crown of thorns, great barbs dripping what appeared to be blood, and inside the crown were two small nubs protruding from his skull, tapering to rounded points and curving inward toward each other: horns. He wore no clothing, allowing his lower parts, though a ram's, to go free; in his left hand he held a staff with three prongs atop it that each had a point like an arrow.

He ignored the husband and walked straight to the mother, who was once again holding the child close to her bosom, although the sheen of sweat across her brow only added to both her beauty and her look of fear. The beast let his pleasure at her looks surface not only in the look in his eyes, but in other parts, too, and the young woman struggled to keep her eyes on the beast's face and not let them roam freely, as he chose to, resting on her breasts and the cling of her robes to her legs.

The beast came up close, right to her face and whispered to her, "Your wand?" The two words were released with a breath of hot, heavy air that carried the stench of an unwashed mouth. The voice was deep, though, almost melodious in its roughness, the syllables well-formed, and its sound intoxicating, almost enticing, seducing. Her breath hitching from both his voice and regret to Horcrux her own child's soul, the mother reached into a pocket in her robes and pulled out her wand. It, too, was an Ollivander's, cedar and unicorn hair, 71⁄4 inches. The beast came to stand behind her, so close she could feel his body nearly pressed against hers.

"It's time," he whispered in her ear, his breath stirring her hair and making it fall forward into her face; he took one clawed hand and pulled it back behind her shoulder. In the action, he scratched through her satin robes on her collarbone with the razor sharp nail on his forefinger and cut her skin, right to the bone, making her gasp in pain. The blood blossomed out from the wound, ruining the robes.

She closed her eyes and concentrated all her energy on performing the Horcrux silently, bringing on a pain in her head that caused her to grimace. She began to draw the wand away from the infant's chest, who promptly began crying loudly, hysterically. A tear squeezed out of the woman's eyes, splashing onto her wand, which was drawing out a thick strand of glistening, blinding light. Pure soul. The strand was nearing six centimeters but the beast whispered into her ear to double it if she expected to be leaving with her child and husband.

Sobbing now, the Devil at her backside still, caressing her body, his nails reducing her thin robes to ribbons and leaving marks all over her previously unmarred skin, she quickly drew out her wand double as far as it already was. The beast cut it off with the nails of his right forefinger and thumb, and she didn't see it again. He waved the three-pronged staff and a bit of parchment and a knife appeared, hovering in midair. It was the signing and sealing of the deal.

Still shaking from the ordeal of creating the Horcrux the woman took the knife in her hands and pricked her right forefinger, intending just to get it deep enough to bleed, but in shock, nearly cut off the tip of her finger. Her husband jumped forward with a cry and healed it, muttering, "_Evanesco_!" and then re-pricked her finger for her. She put her bloody finger to the parchment, signing it quickly, shuddering and turning away, sobbing into her child's blankets.

Gleefully the Devil reminded her, "You're not quite done." His voice didn't have the same seducing, musical qualities as it did only minutes before.

"What did I forget?" she asked fearfully, looking over he should.

"The child's name. How else am I to keep track of whose Horcrux is whose?"

The mother's breath hitched once again, and she turned around, lifted her still bloody forefinger once more to the document and signed her son's name.

_Sirius Black_


	2. Chapter01

The grave was still fresh. Was it not odd, that through twelve months of rainy English weather, not a single blade of grass grew over Sirius Black's body, lying in a mahogany coffin that had been covered with a thousand blood-red roses of regret, guilt and love before being shrouded by the dirt? She reached down to touch the soil. Yes, it was moist. Yes since the beginning of the summer, they had come once a week to put seed upon it. She knew it wasn't good for Harry to come so often, but he had insisted so intensely that it didn't seem like a good idea to refuse his request.

So every Sunday, at half past noon, she would get out the bag of grass seed, pluck a flower or two from her mother's garden, and together they would walk the half mile to the small cemetery where Sirius had been buried. It was just the two of them, alone, in silence. However, she knew back at home, the others would sit and think the same thoughts she and Harry did, questions such as Why him? and How? It had been so instantaneous, so sudden. So real.

And Harry had barely lived through the summer after. His thin face became unusually haggard, and his skin took on a gray tone that should not have been seen in a youthful face of sixteen. But he had lost so much. And she knew she was lucky to still have all that she did. It was strange, to see Harry walking around in silence, his mouth not upturned in a smile like normal, but instead drooping low into a sad kind of frown. He slept for unnatural amounts of time and still woke up looking even more lethargic than he had before falling asleep. The old days were over. It would never be like yesterday again, and she knew it. He had lost too much. Everyone had just lost too much.

Their lives were surrounded by magic, protecting them from the best of evils. The worst.. they could only hope to survive. And she knew that if they were to try to capture Harry Potter now, it wouldn't be a matter of if. It would only be a matter of when and how. As she stared upon the grave, almost as if she was looking through it, or not even seeing it at all, she realized that sooner or later Harry had to bulk up, face his fears, do something to make sure he couldn't be taken right away. He had to relearn how to fight.

But she knew in her heart that it wouldn't happen unless he had Sirius with him. It was impossible. It was inevitable. Harry would be taken from them, sooner or later. And now.. now she knew the truth. He wouldn't even bother to fight back anymore. He had no reason to. She felt a hand on her arm, and shook herself mentally as she looked up. Harry held out his hand, a gesture to ask for the bag of seed. She handed it to him, and he reached in and sprinkled a bit on the ground.

She didn't know why he was so adamant to have grass growing on the grave. She supposed it was because right now the bare ground made it look incomplete – like it was of no importance, that the family didn't care about this man who had been buried there. A fact that, she knew, was quite untrue – it was really the opposite. Harry cared too much about this tombstone, the bare ground, the man who lay beneath them.

If only there was a way to go back in time and redo it with the knowledge they had now. If only they had known. If only… if only she could help. He meant so much to her, to them. They would be worse off than he was now if they lost him. They all needed him in some small way. She was determined to find a way to help. She had to.

Looking to Harry, she saw he was done with the seed, and handed him one of the two roses she had picked. His was red, hers yellow. Love, and friendship. They knelt down in unison, as they had for the past few weeks, and laid them in an 'X' shape, with the red one on top. Soon enough a bird would come to eat the seed, and the rest would decay or be eaten by a wandering deer before the next Sunday could come, and Harry knew that, as well as she did. But in some strange way the ritual that they had created comforted him, made the week bearable until he could return. But the next Sunday was September 1, she realized with a start and a gasp as they were walking back home. He wouldn't be able to come. And that, of course, would ruin this fragile existence they had set him up in.

He wouldn't be able to continue. She promised herself she would find a way for him to move on. Otherwise, he wouldn't make it through the year. Anything could happen, she knew. Absolutely anything. If Harry was weak enough, Voldemort would come for him. And then.. then it would be over for good. The world would enter a reign of terror. She cursed herself for having a vivid imagination then, because all she saw was destruction. She imagined Hogwarts crumbling and soldering, burnt to the foundations. She imagined their house decrepit and boarded up, filled with Muggle-borns and then torched. The things she saw were beyond those of a normal lucidity; in fact, it was downright real to her. She shuddered, and Harry looked to her with a strange sort of worrying glance.

She smiled it away, linking her arm in his. They were so close nowadays, she never would have known it was her walking with him, if her fourteen year old self saw them standing there. That was how much things had changed. Harry patted the slim elegant-fingered hand that lay in the crook of his arm, just below his elbow. A feeling of pleasantness arose in her breast, shadowed by the doubts she felt every time she left even one member of her family behind in the house. She was so afraid to go back and see it demolished, and everyone missing, or to come back just in time to see a flash of green light in the parlor window, followed by a high pitched cackle.

At the end of the day, she was just downright afraid. They turned the bend in the road, and she could see the house, still in tact. It didn't look any different than normal. A great wave of relief washed over her, and she glanced up at Harry. He had a look on his face that seemed that he felt the same way she did. He felt her eyes searching his face, and turned to her. The smallest hint of a smile curved his lips, but it did not reach his eyes and make them dance with mischief like his smiles used to. It almost made his face look younger- maybe not sixteen, but younger than it usually appeared these days.. But then it disappeared without a trace, and she remembered that things were different now. It would never be like the old days again. The peace she had felt while they had walked home had disappeared as Harry's almost-smile had vanished.

She took her hand from his arm, returning to the small world of her own, still not a word spoken between them. Just as they reached the door, she glanced one more time at his face, knowing full well that he wouldn't allow it inside. He had taken on a well-worn look of lethargy, exhaustion, wariness, and caution. He was so careful not to let them in. He couldn't, or else, they all knew, they'd be taken as Sirius had been. It was a fact of life. And it hurt. It hurt just as it had for her to realize the true depth of their relationship at the beginning of the summer. It hurt for her to know that she still wanted more. And it hurt knowing that he would never succumb to that which she hoped he wanted as desperately as she.

He opened the door; she walked in. The kitchen was empty, not a soul in sight. It was a good thing; the hurt was almost too much to bear. Feeling the tears coming on, she quickly left the room without a backward glance to Harry. She ran up the stairs and to her shared room, and shut the door as quietly and quickly as possible. Leaning up against it, the first tear fell, coursing its way down her right cheek, leaving a streak of wetness behind; she closed her eyes and another fell, and yet another. She sniffed lightly, knowing full well that if she couldn't control her emotions, soon enough she'd be in the throes of an all out cry. That was something she couldn't do anymore. She was old enough to be able to handle it, yet she couldn't. She slid down the door, the tears still falling, until she was sitting on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest and her head buried in her arms, and still the tears fell. It hurt to know that Harry couldn't give even give her a single wanting glance, it hurt to know that never he would touch her face with a soft caress..

She thought these thoughts to block out the odd ones obscured in her subconscious. Hearing a knock on the door, she started, and looked up. Whoever it was knocked again, softly, and she had to get out. She couldn't be found tearing up over this! She had to be strong. She had to be ready. Knowing that her bedroom window was located over the roof of the front porch, she easily climbed out, then crept over to the edge. Lying on her stomach, she dangled her legs down until her toes barely touched the rail, and jumped down. They would think her not prepared to help teach the classes if she couldn't hold her own and control her feelings.

And teach was what she wanted to do. So many teachers had left; so many were secretly – well, not so secretly now – in the Order. Even Dumbledore was not going to be at the school from day to day. He would be leaving on a regular basis to help oversee the operations. The older, wiser students had been asked to assist in teaching their peers, and, even though not one of the oldest, she had easily accepted. She could help, for sure. She had brains, and a fondness for the younger ones.. and a need to feel like she was helping. But helping the school wasn't her first priority anymore.

She bitterly wiped away a tear. Helping Harry was more important. If only she knew how. If only he would notice if she did. She crept across the front yard, silently, silently, knowing that if she tried, no one would notice her leaving. Notice they didn't, and soon she was back on the dirt track leading towards the cemetery and Sirius Black's grave. Oddly, she found herself going there some days during the week when Harry was preoccupied, and no one else needed her assistance. It was almost comforting to sit there on the small stone bench right next to the tombstone, and trace her finger over the lovingly etched carvings of dogs and stars.

If only the grass would grow. Then she knew Harry would be able to move on. Then she wouldn't have to worry so much. Then, maybe, the hurt would be less. She sighed as she approached the small cemetery, glad that it was only nearly half past one and the sun wouldn't be setting for hours to come. She walked through the rows of headstones, seeing huge ones of marble, small plain crosses of wood, medium-sized ones of shale, figurines of quartz. Sirius' gravestone was polished granite, a dark charcoal gray with a pink tinted lighter ribbon running through it. There was a brilliant quote from some Muggle author upon it, a sweet epitaph, his name and his dates. The carving at the top was of a huge burly dog, with a star behind its head giving out rays of light. Ginny sat down the small stone bench, and held out the tip of her finger to touch the top point of the starburst.

She laid her forefinger on it, but quickly jumped and drew it back, with a strangled cry. It had hurt, that one little touch, and as she looked down at her finger in amazement, she noted that it had drawn blood, and the cut was deep. Why, she had made that exact same motion at least five times before, and she had never pricked her finger. She stood up and hunkered down over the tombstone to take a closer look. The tip looked.. well, rounded. Like normal. Carefully, she raised her other hand and touched the point with her right forefinger. It was white-hot pain. Startled, she stood straight up and took a good look at her finger. Again, there was a cut, very deep but only the size of a pinhead. It was strange, and strange was not good. She had dealt with strange in the past, and she didn't like it. Slowly backing away, she promised herself to never come alone to the cemetery again, turned and fled.

She slowed down once she was on the earthen road again, but still her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, beating ever so steadily. The pricks in her fingers were still trickling blood, so she pressed her thumbs against them to try and stop the flow. She couldn't stop thinking about it. Trying to clear her mind of the strange occurrence, she turned her thoughts to Harry. The despondent look in his eyes today was the worst she had ever seen it. It hadn't been so bad a year ago.

Then again, a year ago he had still retained the smallest bit of hope that he would wake up from his nightmarish hell of a life and find at least someone of the parental persuasion still standing over him. He had lost his parents when he was a mere babe, and he had lost his godfather at fifteen; not much could be expected form him now. But a year ago he had thought that maybe Dumbledore and the Order were wrong, that maybe Sirius was not dead. She remembered the moment well.

They had just returned home from Hogwarts, had brought in the trunks and such and were beginning to put them away. She had been upstairs in her shared bedroom, slowly, slowly unpacking. She had seen Harry leave with those horrible relative of his, although she had nearly laughed when the uncle had seen Mad Eye Moody's eye. It was a humorous moment, to see the big man (who must have easily weighed at least 95 kilos) jump back in fright and come close to knocking over his tub-of-lard son. (Who was probably closer to 125 kilos.) It was so soon to know.

The owl flew in through the propped open kitchen door, flew straight to her father, dropped the letter in his lap – he was sitting in a favourite easy chair in the parlour, reading the paper – and flew back out the front parlour window. The letter had the official Hogwarts seal upon it, but Her father had frowned when he noted it wasn't addressed in green ink, but red. Curious, he opened it, and out fell two slips of paper, one sealed again and the other merely folded over. He unfolded the one sheet of thick parchment and read, 'The remains may be found at number twelve Grimmauld Place, London.' Automatically, he knew it was from the Order, and immediately set fire to the parchment, the cracked the seal on the other letter.

It was addressed to the family, and held the deepest regrets to inform them of the death of one of the Order; it was an official statement of Sirius Black's death. It asked that all parties who wished to attend the mass should continue to the aforementioned area, and they, too would be informed of the situation. The letter continued to say that the only known, non-estranged blood relation to Black would be present, and all details of Mr. Black's death would be discussed on the premises. Of course, Sirius had had no non-estranged blood relations, but the man caught on to what it said, and gathered his family round, and informed them of a dismal summer holiday that they would be taking to London.

Hollow but understanding eyes knew what he said, and their heads nodded in unison. They had to be in London by the next morning. Each went their separate way to get ready; she managed to hold back the tears until she reached her room. They fell slowly, knowing the horror that Harry must have been feeling at that point; she wanted to be there to comfort him, but knew he would accept no comfort in knowing that Sirius was completely gone. It would only make it worse, to know that there was no reason to hold out hope. But it was for the best.

The next morning they had journeyed to number twelve Grimmauld Place, to find Harry was already there, after being dropped off by his aunt, uncle and cousin, who were spending the day shopping for the cousin's school wardrobe. (They had to find a tailor who would make the uniforms big enough, was the problem, as the Smeltings seamstress did not.) He was dressed, as far as she could see in the dimly lit hall, in a pair of dark jeans and a deep green shirt. The look on his face was desperately grim, his eyes dark and a bit red-rimmed. His face was deathly pale, approximately the color of a white under t-shirt that had just been bleached. He looked as though if he could, he would fall over dead right there and not think a second thought about it; and just as she thought that he swayed violently, near falling against one of her family members.

Dumbledore had walked in the next moment and had ushered them into the Black's small, cramped kitchen. Once they were all seated around the table, bleakly awaiting his explanations, Harry closed his eyes and just let the images flow over the inside of his eyelids like a picture show. Sirius rushing into the Department of Mysteries. Sirius and Bellatrix dueling. Sirius.. Sirius falling. And vanishing. How could his corpse indeed be returned to the mourners when he had seen the man vanish through a thin veil right before his very own eyes? It made no sense whatsoever.

She watched Harry, making sure he didn't collapse; but it seemed that there would be no repeat of his near mishap in the foyer. He seemed to be struggling to pull himself together, but winning the battle, if not the war. Even in her heart, she who had not known the man as well as he, she felt the tortuous pain of Dumbledore's agonizing wait. She was glad, for just an instant, that she was not Harry.. that she didn't have to go through what he was now. She wasn't positive she could do it and come out so well as him; she wasn't positive that if it were her in his place, that she would come out of it at all. But now she had to be there for Harry, just like the rest of them, as a person to turn to, even though they knew he wouldn't. But just in case, they all had to be there with welcoming arms, a listening ear, and a soft shoulder to cry on. She would easily and gladly volunteer all three.

Dumbledore had told them that when a person passed through the veil, their body vanished from that place and time and returned to that which it called home; In Sirius's case, he'd not really had a home since before Azkaban, and his body had therefore returned to the default position – the home of his parents. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London. Harry had asked how a body – literally, a body, a corpse – could do so, but for once Dumbledore had no answer. He only knew that that was how the veil worked. As she looked upon his face, she saw an odd glint in those clear, blue eyes of old, as though the old man was holding back information. But she kept her tongue, not wanting to cause a rise. And anyway, she very well knew that if Dumbledore withheld information from a body it was usually for their own good, and it would not bode well if one was to interfere with his decision.

Dumbledore led Harry, who went reluctantly, to a bedroom upstairs where the body was being held. Her father left the house with her mother, to go to Diagon Alley to the Harmon Brothers' Funeral Home, a highly respected home run by a set of rogue wood-elves who had decided that city life was much more to their tastes. Twenty minutes of agony she went through, just sitting in the kitchen, waiting. Finally Dumbledore came back down the stairs and told her she should go up; Harry was distraught and would want someone with him now besides Dumbledore. Someone, he had informed her, who could easily comfort him. So she bounded up the stairs and followed the Professor's directions to the fifth door on the left; she remembered cleaning this room. It was a bedroom, decorated like a young boys', which had always led her to believe it was Sirius's. She knocked lightly, and crept in to see a cloth-shrouded body lying on the bed, and Harry in a desk chair pulled up close. He looked up quickly as she entered, and then back down just as suddenly, but she had seen enough. There were tears in his eyes, great huge drops that refused to fall. They made his emerald irises almost crystalline in fact, hidden behind the twin panes of glass that were his spectacles.

She walked over to stand next to his chair, and placed a hand on his shoulder, a soft, gentle touch to invoke comfort. His shoulders involuntarily shuddered as he let out more emotion, enough to make her tear up herself. She asked herself, the gods, anyone she could think of, why they had separated this hero from the only thing he had ever fought to save – his family. No reply came. A tear streaked down her face. It was unfair for this boy. She might be thought too young to understand it, but she had sympathy.

She gave into a deep desire then and looked down upon the corpse. Her mouth opened in surprise and she nearly gasped aloud, yet managed to contain herself. It did not look like he was dead. He wore a set of black robes, simply cut, yet exuding elegance. They fit well, tailored just for him – broader in the shoulders, tapering down to a slimmer waist, longish in the legs. His hair, black as a raven was down and settled around his face and shoulders, long enough to be tucked back into a ponytail. It set off the colour of his face – a healthy, fair complexion.

His strong jaw led to a slightly cleft chin, set beneath a full, finely shaped mouth. His strong lips were beneath a Romanesque nose, his high cheekbones were swept with his long lashes, down over closed eyes. She remembered his eyes from what seemed like ages ago when she last saw him in Grimmauld Place; they were a beautiful, clear, deep blue, so deep that in the dark his pupils and irises blended together and his eyes nearly looked black. Strong, stubborn brows were above his eyes, reflecting his personality. The hands were set in the usual way, clasped over his chest. She remembered admiring his hands, big and strong workingman's hands with calluses on the palms and surprisingly clean fingernails.

If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was merely sleeping, if it was not for the fact that his chest did not rise and fall with the slow, steady, deep breaths that he should have taken. Turning back to Harry, she massaged his shoulder slightly, and he started. Looking up, she saw those haunted eyes again, filled with tears once more. Finding a chair in the corner of the room, she dragged it over next to him and sat down.

He looked at her, and closed his eyes causing some of his tears to finally break free and course down his face. It was such a heart-wrenching moment to see Harry cry finally that she couldn't help herself. She reached out, and took his hand in her own, not at all surprised to find it deathly cold, the approximate temperature of a glacier in the Arctic Circle. Harry slowly cracked his eyes open to look at her, startled that she held his hand so easily. It was difficult to see him like this. Just then her father came up; she dropped his hand quickly and turned to hear his say that the Harmon Brothers were coming themselves with a Muggle hearse for the body and a coffin that had been ordered a year before by Dumbledore for the Order, just in case of a sudden death.

The knowledge that Dumbledore had known that this was possible, that Sirius or one of the other members could have died just broke Harry. He let go, let the tears fall freely, didn't even bother trying to swallow them down. If only he had known, he wouldn't have made so many rash decisions in such a short amount of time. Her father asked if Harry wanted something different for his godfather, but Harry shook his head. He told her father that it would suit him, to be buried in a coffin of the Order, that it was an honour that Dumbledore had offered to provide it. He then excused himself, before he broke down completely. She and her father watched him hurry down the hall to the bathroom, where he went in and shut the door vehemently. She looked to her father, and they silently agreed that it was a trying time, and they would not smother him with attentions. He would hate it, just as he did when followers did it because of his fame.

They walked down the stairs together, and rejoined the family, in wait in the kitchen. When Harry came down, his cheeks were red as though he had been scrubbing them with soap and cold water; his eyes were bright as though he was still tearing up. But he was composed and that was the most to be expected of him. Not a single emotion crossed his face, although she took note of a slight tic in his temple and his clenched jaw. No one else appeared to notice, or else they chose to ignore it as they welcomed him back and offered him a seat. He didn't have the chance to accept, however, for the Harmon Brothers arrived just then, and were ushered into the hall by Dumbledore. They carried with them a long cloth, to place Sirius's body on, so they didn't have to take the coffin in and out of the house; they doubted it would even fit through the front door.

Dumbledore took the liberty of showing them where the body was, and she and her mother ushered Harry out the door. The hearse would meet them near the cemetery where Harry wished to bury him, close to where many of his colleagues were. Close, in fact, to where his parents had plots that were never used. Their corpses had never made it out of the rubble of their house in Godric's Hollow. There were gravestones, of course, but no bodies, no nothing. Just cold hard stone with their names engraved upon it. The Harmon Brothers had also made an honorary headstone for Sirius, intricately carved with the dog and starburst that Dumbledore had requested.

The epitaph read: " Sirius Black – Born October 1, 1960 ; Died May 31, 1995 ; A man's best friend, he will be with us always in spirit. " But Harry had known that he would never be there in spirit, because he had asked Nearly Headless Nick about such things. She learned this as they approached the cemetery the next day, walking the half-mile from the house to plot. The hearse was already there, sitting at the bottom of the hill the plot was on; it was hard to see through the thin mist that was covering everything. Her black robes clung to her legs, and her hair drooped beneath the black veil she wore attached to a small black cap atop her head.

She wanted to tell him that it was a good sign that it was raining, even slightly; for rain on a funeral meant that the deceased had gone straight to heaven, and had skipped hell and purgatory. There was already a cluster of people standing in wait; mostly the other members of the Order, and a few teachers from Hogwarts. None came forward to offer regrets or consolation as Harry joined them; they all knew he knew they felt for him. The only one who even made any move towards him was Professor Lupin, who touched his shoulder softly before moving forward to the coffin. The professor had produced a blood-red rose from a pocket in his black woolen cloak, and he set it gently on the casket with a murmured goodbye, then moved back to the short line of mourners. She looked around, and saw a red rosebush standing only feet away, and turned to pluck one herself. As she snapped the stem, she was amazed to see another rose instantaneously grow and bloom before her eyes.

Strange, she thought, but she turned back, and handed it to Harry, then got ones for her herself and her family. The other grievers caught on, and took their own roses in stride, taking it up to the coffin when they felt ready to leave Sirius with a final goodbye. Finally, she and Harry were the only ones left. She made herself move, forced herself to step forward and place the rose on the pile of others, and as she did so, murmuring a soft goodbye, Harry moved up too. He touched the rose to his heart and whispered a phrase that she didn't quite catch, then dropped it on the mound, and turned away quickly.

She followed him to where he went, the small stone bench next to the grave, and he told her to tell the Harmons to bury him and get it over with. Nodding slightly, hearing the bitter tone of guilt and regret in is voice, she did as he requested. And that was the end.

Even though it was the middle of the day, the sun was shining bright and there wasn't even a hint of wind, she shivered wildly as she reached the front porch. It was terrifying to think about how horrid that day had been. Harry.. poor Harry had cried. Walking through the kitchen door, she saw Harry at the table, sitting. Just sitting. He was staring at nothing, a glazed over look in his eyes. She stepped in his line of vision, shaking him from his thoughts.

He looked up and beckoned for her to sit at the table. That day had been over a year ago, when he had buried Sirius, yet she could tell Harry relived it every single day. As she sat, laying her hands on the table, Harry's brow furrowed. Her fingertips, she noticed, were stained with blood. She shrugged it off and explained to him that it was nothing, but she got up then, even though she had just sat, and went quickly to her room. Luckily it was empty; walking in she closed the door and sighed. It was only nearing half past two, but she was so tired. She felt as though she was as tired as Harry looked these days, with the huge purple bags beneath his eyes, so vivid against the deathly pallor of his bleached out skin. Combined with his ebony hair, the boy looked like a walking disease.

She sat down lethargically, and closed her eyes slowly. It felt so good, just to sit down. She let herself fall backwards onto the bed, her eyes still closed. She heard a voice, and looked up and around. It was calling her name, but she couldn't see the source. Getting back up, she opened the door and walked back down the stairs to the kitchen. Harry was no longer there; the whole house was empty, for some odd reason. Hearing the voice again, it sounded like it came from the back yard. She walked out into the grass, barefooted, loving the soft feeling beneath her toes.

Finally she saw her caller; it was a man sitting on the stone bench in their back garden. He was all alone. Strangely he was the only soul in the back. Where was her family? The thought coursed through her mind, but it was quickly dissipated by her recognition of the man sitting on her stone bench. She looked into his eyes, eyes the colour of the ocean after a storm cleans the water; the colour of the sky during sunrise. They were a beautiful crystalline blue, framed by thick, luxurious black lashed, set in a beautiful face with full lips and high cheekbones, and a slightly cleft chin.

Sirius Black was the man sitting upon her bench. She could not remember where he had been for the whole of the summer, why he had not written to Harry, not even once. Surely he would have told her about a letter from Sirius.. and if not her, one of the others, from whom she would have found out. She remembered him disappearing after the melee at the Ministry of Magic, but her memory went a bit fuzzy after that. She asked him as much, and he just frowned slightly and replied that he'd been right there in the house the whole time. She didn't believe it. She would have known. Her mother would have had plenty to say about it, and to him, as well. Oh, he told her, he knew that he wasn't really there, that it wasn't really him. She asked him what he meant by that, and he explained that it was all related to the veil.

Realization dawned. He knew the truth. He smiled lightly and told her that in due time she would understand it even more. _Just give it time_, he advised her. His voice was rough and gravelly as he spoke, and as he continued, it became more hoarse. _Just.. don't tell Harry_, he pleaded. _He'd never be able to handle this. You're the only one who can know. The only one who can help. Just remember, give it time._

He stood, and she realized he was going. _No!_ she cried_. Don't leave, not yet.. I need to know more! I need to know how to help!_

_Give it time._

The words echoed in her head. The room was dark, the only light coming from a small oil lamp on the shared dresser in her shared room. She sat up, her thoughts swirling around inside her head like they would in a Pensieve. She heard the rough-edged voice.

_Just give it time._

_The only one who can help._

And as she heard the words again, she understood some more. She could help Harry. She would bring back Sirius Black.


	3. Chapter02

The castle was brilliantly lit as they approached in the thestral-drawn carriages. Ginny remembered how it was to fly on the invisible beast to the Ministry of Magic - the powerful ripple of muscle beneath her legs with each beating of its wings, the silence of the flight, the speed in which they had arrived. It had been.. strange. Ginny had thought she had had enough strange for one lifetime after her first year, and that from then on, her life would be the most normal and boring thing imaginable. But it was not to be; with each year her world, her life grew stranger and more exhilaratingly terrifying.

She had never thought though, through everything that had happened in the years past, that anyone would have died. But here they were, a year after Sirius's death, and none of them were over it. Harry, of course, had had the Order surrounding him for the last twelve months, but they could no longer do so. So many of their number were needed on other missions and in other engagements. They could not spare him a single person. Professor Sprout had left the school, and if it hadn't been for Dumbledore's adamant refusal, Professor McGonagall would have left, as well. Mr Weasley had come home with this news just weeks before. Harry was just so weak, so vulnerable. Ginny was appalled that the Order had let him become like this. She hadn't realized how bad it was until he had come home with them for the summer, and he had insisted on visiting Sirius's grave every Sunday.

He had to relearn how to protect himself, or Lord Voldemort would take him one day, and Harry probably would put up much of a fight at this point. If only Sirius was still here! Ginny thought, sighing lightly. No one in the carriage took note of it. Ron, sitting diagonally across from her, was sulking after Malfoy had thrown a particularly nasty taunt towards him, and Hermione and Harry had held him back while she had told him repeatedly that Malfoy just was not worth it. Ron, obviously, hadn't gotten the message. Hermione was on the bench next to her, glancing out the window, staring into oblivion. And Harry.. why, it was obvious what was on Harry's mind. While he, too, stared out the window, it was plain to Ginny that his mind was not empty, but in fact filled with thought.

She could see a troubled look in his eyes, his eyebrows were slightly knitted, his whole face had taken on an expression of despair. As Ginny looked to him, she thought of the odd dream she had had the day before and automatically looked at the pads of her forefingers. There were two identical red spots directly in the middle, the beginnings of small scars from Sirius's headstone. It had been so perplexing to be sitting on that stone bench in the back garden talking to him in her dream. It had seemed so real. As she thought about it more, and about his words and advice, Ginny began to feel more freaked out.

_Just give it time._

The words came to her again, in Sirius's rough, low voice. There was almost a hint of mischief in the serious tone in which he had spoken the words, but Ginny was sure she was just imagining it. In fact, she was probably imagining hearing it at all. Of course she was. How could a ghost talk to her, especially when Sirius had clearly chosen not to be a ghost, in the first place? She sighed exasperatedly. It might be the logical thing to know it was all just a dream. But her heart just didn't agree with her brain, no matter how much she told herself that it was the only way any of it made sense.

_You're the only one who can help._

The carriage abruptly stopped, and slowly Ginny reached over to open up the door. She climbed down and turned back to look at Harry, to make sure his mind was too preoccupied as to either keep him in the carriage or have him fall on his way out; it was definitely possible. As the year had passed he had gotten clumsier as opposed to less, even though he had grown into his long (and what had seemed gangly at first) limbs.

He smiled briefly at her, and they began to walk towards the castle together. She was taken by the small smile, forgetting completely that Ron and Hermione had still to follow; he, on the other hand, was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice they were there. He wouldn't notice unless they stood right in front of him, blocking out the visions of Sirius he had.

As they walked to the front doors, Ginny realized a few abnormal things; the fact that it was quiet, so quiet that she could hear the wind in the trees a hundred yards away. Something she never heard. There were no taunts, no jokes, no silly giggles or cries of loud laughter, but just small groups talking as they walked. It was somber. It was terrifying. Ginny almost thought she liked it better when most of the wizarding world had not acknowledged the return of Voldemort. She shivered. Just thinking his name scared her.

She knew his power. It was horrible. He had strength, despite his old age, despite his great struggles that should have weakened and killed him. But he also had faith and beliefs in himself - and that alone kept him alive, immortal or nay. There wasn't the normal cheery, yet strictly toned yell of "First years follow me, please!" coming from McGonagall. Instead it was said in a placid, male voice with a smooth tenor timbre and an amused note as the man looked over the crowd, knowing who the first years were by the wet hems of their cloaks and the scared looks upon their faces.

Remus Lupin beckoned them in, waving his right hand in a come-to-me motion. This raised speculation straightaway, and Ginny was almost positive she heard a wolf howl or two as she looked over the crowd to see who was whispering. Immediately, her gaze swung back to Lupin, who didn't stop moving, but - at least to her eye - was clearly agitated, his movements going from smooth and lucid to jerky and irritated.

Then Ginny heard the worst of it, coming from Draco Malfoy's mouth of course, he was just telling all his little friends, "Seems this place gets worse every year. First we had that Quirrell character who couldn't keep his head on, then they hired Lockhart - remember he sicced those pixies on us? Then the werewolf came.. then we were taught by a mad crazy psycho who was ready to kill us all. Then, of course came Umbridge, who was by far the only good thing around here, 'til the centaurs decided to drive her insane. But now, we've got the werewolf back, and God only knows how long it'll be until someone gets bit. I've got money on Potter being the first to go, how about you?"

Her face flushed, and Ginny knew that it would just be best to ignore the whole thing and pretend she hadn't heard it. She hoped Ron would do the same, and Hermione as well… Harry probably hadn't heard it, thank God, he was far too lost in his own world to hear Malfoy any longer. But the inevitable came, and Ginny grimaced as she heard Ron roaring at Malfoy, heard the sound of a fist hitting face. (Living with six brothers, she had heard it a lot and was able to recognize it.)

She whirled around to see Malfoy on top of Ron, and all the Slytherins egging him on. A few of the Ravenclaws were as well, which alerted Ginny to the fact that it wasn't any longer just the Slytherins who thought that Dumbledore couldn't pick a teacher well. It surprised her; it angered her. Without a second thought, Ginny threw herself into the mess, jumping on Malfoy and smacking him upside the head.

Surprised, he turned around to look at her, the gray steel of his eyes chilling her to the bone. He stopped fighting and, in mock surprise said, "Why, what is this? The little girl-weasel coming to the ickle Ronniekins' rescue? Don't you have more important things to do? Like pining after Potter?" She knew he was right. She should be with Harry, making sure he didn't go off and do something stupid. But the fact that he had known just annoyed her all the more. Reaching back with her left hand slowly, Ginny made a fist, and socked him in the ear.

His eyes had gone wide with shock as he saw her fist coming, but Malfoy had had no time to duck it. The force of the blow made Ginny's hand hurt, and the impact on Malfoy's part must have been much worse. Ron had, by this time, scrambled to his feet with the help of Hermione's support. He had a bloody nose, and he was currently trying to stop it with the hem of his cloak; it wasn't doing much good. Ginny turned her gaze back to Malfoy, who was doubled over with the pain, grabbing his ear and making small sounds that made Ginny want to pity him. If only he wasn't a Slytherin, maybe she would have.

Someone had gotten a teacher, and she saw him stride towards the group. The long hair made her heart sink in fear that it was Snape, but then Ginny realized that the hair was a tawny brown with gray at the temples. Professor Lupin. Ginny looked then to where Harry was. His mouth was agape; as though he wasn't sure what he had seen was real or a hallucination (either was possible for him at this point); his eyes were wide, yet they still had the glazed over look that nearly never left them anymore.

"Ginny, what has happened here?" Professor Lupin asked her quietly, his gray eyes cool and his disposition calm. He looked around, saw Malfoy staring at him with a glower and a belligerent look in his eyes, Harry astonished, Ron still preoccupied with his nose, Hermione had a very meek look as though she didn't know what she should be doing; the Slytherins and few Ravenclaws had quickly dispersed and run for the Great Hall. Lupin hadn't bothered trying to catch one.

"Well, Professor… I… " She had no words. Malfoy would quickly and smoothly reject any plausible answer that started with "Malfoy said…" So she didn't say his name. She said what he had, his whole spiel about the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, for every fiery and nasty word was imprinted in her mind permanently. As she proceeded, the look in the professor's eye darkened until his eyes were smoldering coals. "…of course, I didn't say that, Professor," she finished. Throwing a look over her shoulder to Malfoy and Ron, she saw them both amazed that she hadn't started in the normal way with complete accusations.

"Well then, if you didn't say it - and I never would have thought you capable of such filth- whom, may I ask, did?" Lupin asked her when the dark look had left his eyes. He gave her a small knowing grin, as he had already caught on to the whole charade and knew the answer already, just needed it from someone's mouth for clarification.

"Draco Malfoy," she said, almost quite gleefully, relieved to know he understood what she was doing. There was a surprised gasp of shock from Malfoy's mouth.

"Professor Lupin!" he interjected smoothly. "How could I say such a thing?" He gave Lupin a winning smile that didn't reach his hard, gray eyes.

Lupin had a hard time containing a retorting snort. However, he managed to and replied, "Why, I don't know, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps because I've heard the same exact words coming from your father's mouth? It is, after all, always said that fathers teach their sons well. Obviously, yours hasn't failed." He turned away from Malfoy, and asked Ginny what had happened after that.

She told him about how she had heard Ron and Malfoy fighting, and then, to try and get Malfoy to get off Ron, she had smacked him. "And then, Professor Lupin," she continued, "after he had thought to suggest that I do better things with my time in a particularly rude manner, I punched him in the ear to make him shut up. I didn't want Ron get involved again, you see-"

"Ms. Weasley, don't worry. I don't need more reasons from you. It is all perfectly understandable," Lupin interrupted. "However… the three of you will be given detention on the premises of fighting while on school grounds. I have no other options." He turned to Hermione and Harry, who stood as the only witnesses. "You agree to all this, Ms. Granger, Mr. Potter?" Hermione nodded. Harry didn't. Ginny felt a wave of guilt rushing over her, that she hadn't gotten Harry away from it. He was probably relating it to the battle in the Ministry of Magic, and she hadn't even realized it.

"I think that you had better go with Mr. Potter to the Great Hall, Ms. Weasley," Lupin said quietly. "I shall give your detention assignment to your brother, since he and Mr. Malfoy will join me now in my office." Ginny nodded through a thin mask of guilty tears of remembrance, and walked over to Harry. She beckoned for him to walk with her, and he did, in silence. Hermione followed, and caught up to them, falling in stride next to Ginny.

"You handled that well, Gin," Hermione told her. "I think it's the first time in his life that Malfoy hasn't been able to supply a good reason for his actions." Hermione patted her on the back. Ginny nodded silently, looking up at Harry. His face was blank; his eyes empty behind his glasses. If Ginny stopped and let him walk on his own, he was liable to continue straight off the beaten path and into the side of the school without even realizing what he was doing. She sighed, and placed a hand on his arm, beneath his elbow. He looked down when she touched him, and she gave him a small wry grin that he didn't understand the meaning of. However, he grinned back, lightly. It didn't reach his eyes. They stayed hollow and haunted.

Turning her eyes back towards the school, Ginny sighed unconscientiously, drawing a stare from Hermione. She didn't notice until, right before they entered Hogwarts, Hermione asked her what was wrong. She replied that it was nothing of importance, just that she hoped her detention was not too severe. Hermione laughed in reply and informed her that she felt Malfoy would get the brunt of it, since he had been the one to badmouth the teacher who had caught them. Ginny nodded in a silent agreement, and they crossed the threshold three abreast. Ginny dropped her hand from Harry's arm, hoping that he would recognize where they were and where they were headed; luckily he did.

In fact, he led the short way across the foyer and into the Great Hall; he held the door open for them. Ginny had stopped short, surprised that he had done it, but she quickly began moving again, to not let Harry and Hermione see her startled. She thanked him softly for holding the door, and he grinned, his eyes dancing for the briefest moment before returning to their normal state of hollowness. As they moved towards the Gryffindor table, Ginny noticed a few people looking up to them - specifically, Neville and Colin. As Colin stood with a bright smile on his face and a handful of prepared questions for Harry already spewing from his mouth, Ginny caught his eye and shook her head and told him to sit down and shut up.

Colin's grin faded and he sat down a bit huffily, not fully understanding why Ginny was telling him what to do. Harry wasn't paying attention, by chance, or else he probably would have turned on his heel and left the hall just to avoid Colin. Harry didn't enjoy his fame; sometimes it seemed that Ginny was the only one who fully understood that. Hermione's accusations of years past, that he enjoyed playing the hero were highly far-fetched, had led Ginny to believe that she had overestimated Hermione's level of perception. Ron's fits of jealousy were also out of place - Harry did what any normal teenager would do. He played Quidditch; he did whatever came to him. However, it wasn't his fault that Lord Voldemort was out to get him at any costs. It wasn't his fault that the Daily Prophet first produced Rita Skeeter's stories about him then produced outrageous slander about him.

He was just a normal teenager, as normal as one could be while losing both his parents and his godfather, as normal as one could be while having saved the world at the age of one. It was amazing that he hadn't ended up with a big head after it all. It was true that he hadn't learned of his real past until he was eleven, but even then he hadn't had an inflated ego. Harry was no longer normal, though. He was normal in the old days, but the old days were gone. As Dumbledore stood up at the front of the huge hall, the whole student body quieted down. Even before he had begun to speak, Ginny knew that things had not gotten better over the summer.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," he said in a somber tone, without the usual cheer he exuded. "The past year has been a trial, not knowing when or if the Dark Lord would attack our small school here." This raised plenty of speculation, excited whispers and horrified gasps that Dumbledore would dare talk about such things. Dumbledore cleared his throat, waiting for the student body to calm down. When they had settled, he continued, "I know, the Minister of Magic does not want me telling you any of this. He believes that you should not have to face the truth. However, I don't agree with that. I will tell you exactly what may happen this year. Do not be frightened, however, we have many numbers in our midst that can protect you… all of you." Here the old wizard paused again, taking a deep breath. Not a person moved, no one spoke.

"Lord Voldemort - " here he was interrupted by whispers, and he continued in an amused tone " - Yes, I do say his name. Fear of a name invokes a deeper fear of the object. I encourage all of you to freely say his name, and I will not stop now. Lord Voldemort" - this time there were no whispers or gasps - "will attempt to attack us this year. I can almost guarantee it. I do not want you to anticipate it, but just stay alert. Do not go anywhere, and I mean anywhere alone. I fear the loss of any one of you would be devastating to the whole school.

"To try and negate the possible effects of having fully grown wizards armed with the powerful Unforgivable Curses, each member of the staff has taken a new light on their assigned subject and will be focusing on the usage of said subject for defense and basic combat. While this is quite terrible to think about doing, I daresay you will all find your classes more enjoyable than in the past. Also, a great opportunity arises for student-teachers - as some of our number have left to help the cause, the older students shall be helping to cover the first-year - and possibly the second-year - classes in most subjects," Dumbledore paused again to let the students take in all the information he had just told them. It was going to happen, he told them. There was no point in denying it any longer. No point in trying to hide it from them.

"Finally," Dumbledore continued, "We have a few changes in the faculty. Professors Binns and Snape have left for personal reasons. Instead, the newly returned Professor Lupin shall be covering Defense Against the Dark Arts. Congratulations, my dears - none of you will be taking History of Magic this year, and none of you who have chosen the Divination elective will be taking that, either. Professor Trelawney is on a year-long sabbatical in the South of France. And by sabbatical, I think all of you know I mean a health retreat." A magnificent roar of approval rose from the crowd. No more long notes, no more lectures, no more goblin-dwarf wars, no more ghost-monotone, no more predicted deaths every week, no more stuffy North Tower, no more tea-leaves or Grims or weird smoke that put students into trances. No more Trelawney and Binns… it was almost as good as Christmas. Ginny smiled and looked to Harry, who had taken in all this information with a look of despair upon his face. She knew it was not what he wanted. No one in his or her right mind would want to fight Voldemort; and as Harry was what he was ultimately after, it was only a matter of time.

Knowing all this information, she realized she had to hurry. She had to do this as fast as possible. Soon the welcoming feast was over, and the students were hurried down the halls towards their dormitories. Ron - who had gotten a very enjoyable detention for once (helping Lupin set up a display for one of his more exciting lessons), was in a good mood - and Hermione pushed through the throng waiting in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, and shouted the new password loud enough for one and all to hear (it was _fortis animo_), then hurried through the hole behind the portrait, so as to not get stampeded over. By the time Ginny and Harry had made it through the portrait-hole, the first years had tumbled in and were exploring, and the seventh years had claimed the nice comfy chairs by the fire. There were three or four cats lazing around - Crookshanks was not one of them, he was far too independent for the rest of the Gryffindor cats, and was probably off checking for mice to eat - whose owners really didn't care where they went as long as they didn't run off.

Ginny quietly led Harry to a table near the back wall of windows, overlooking the Forbidden Forest. They had a fantastic view of the night sky, and Ginny sat for a minute, just taking in the beauty of the cloudless night, the velvety blue backdrop of sky with bright pinpricks of light shining upon it. Turning to Harry, she asked him how his dinner was, hoping to invoke a bit of old time chitchat. He only briefly glanced at her and nodded before returning his gaze to the stars. Ginny saw he was focused on one star alone.

The Dog Star. Sirius.

And she reminded herself, again, that she had to figure out her puzzle soon.

The bed had never been more comfortable. It had been a long summer. It had been a trying day. And now, just when Ginny felt as though she were about to collapse and never regain consciousness, sleep wouldn't come. She sighed and turned onto her side, facing the left panel of velvet drapes that enclosed her four-poster. Her mind was racing with thoughts, of her worries of Harry, of how she was supposed to be teaching the first years, of how she was supposed to help Sirius. He couldn't have been real, Ginny told herself repeatedly, not really. He couldn't have survived. And even if it was true, she reminded herself, he wouldn't have picked her. But the voice in the back of Ginny's head was skeptical and disbelieving of these reasoned and well-thought-out ideas. According to her theories, Sirius wouldn't have picked her.

He would have picked Harry, or Hermione or even Ron at the very least. But for obvious reasons, there were flaws in this logic. Harry would go mad with the knowledge that Sirius was alive and he had to be stealthy and cautious in saving him. He would literally go out of his mind, and he'd let something slip, and end up playing right into Voldemort's hands. Hermione would tell Ron, because she'd need help. They'd figure it out quite fast, but then accidentally spill the beans somehow and all hell would break loose. Ron, of course, out of complete loyalty to Harry, would tell him right away.

But Ginny, why, sweet little Ginny Weasley, who he had scarcely spoken more than five words to that naughty Sirius Black during her stay at 12 Grimmauld Place, could keep deep and dark secret from everyone, her whole family and all her assorted friends, without breaking a sweat. She had done it before, even when she wasn't under the influence of a very powerful wizard. She'd been keeping secrets her entire life. Like the time she had snuck out of the house two summers ago to meet Michael Corner in the wood near the Burrow. No one would ever suspect. Ginny grimly pulled her face into a smile, finally seeing the logic behind it all. Sirius Black was a sly, sneaky prat, dropping this on her shoulders like a two hundred kilo anvil. She sighed and turned over, sitting up to fluff her pillow. How would she ever do this alone? She had to tell someone, she thought. But no sooner than the thought had passed through her head, a deep voice floated through her brain, sending shivers down her spine.

_Don't tell a soul. Just give it time._

She had expected that when she opened her eyes, she would see the morning light falling in rays over her bed and especially over her face, shining across the dormitory from the bay window to light it up as bright as if it were Muggle electricity making the light. But when the creases in the corners of her eyes were fully opened, they opened to a darkness that consumed all of her senses, dulling the edges of everything. She could barely see her hand before her face, her breathing shallower, silence filling her eardrums, the reeking odor of rotting flesh faint and far-off and her nerve endings numb to feeling. The darkness crept past her physical being and Ginny felt like it was infesting her soul, shrouding her mind in its gloom, making her heart ache in her chest like it had been torn away to leave a gaping bottomless-pit wound behind. The air, icy cold, literally stole her breath away, leaving her to respire in short, gasping, hoarse breaths.

She felt as though there was no blood running through her veins, as she felt no heart beat in her chest, no pulse in her wrist or neck. She felt empty, icy cold, like she was dead. She had been sitting on the cold ground, which felt as if it were made of the hardest rock on earth, but just then chose to stand up, her legs wobbling slightly in fright and feeling as though her muscles had turned to jelly. She took a step forward, then stopped again, staring up at what had risen from the darkness before her.

She could see, just barely through the engulfing darkness, a tall gate wrought from blackened iron. It appeared Gothic in its design, with many curls and accents flourishing the thick bars going from top to bottom. At the top, the bars ended in three-pronged, triton-looking points, which curved over toward the outside of the gate to keep intruders from climbing over the fence. Ginny took in a deep breath of air and looked at the crest in the middle of the gate, a crest that didn't have initials but had a name. _Purgatorie_, it read, a name that brought shivers down Ginny's spine as she whispered it, not knowing its true meaning. Beyond the gate a misty fog rose from the ground, keeping her from seeing much farther than three or four meters away. She thought she saw some piles of… something there, but could not be sure that they weren't just shapes and shadows of the fog. She thought she heard a whisper come to her ears, softly, muted just enough that she couldn't understand what the whisperer was asking of her.

She took a step forward, toward the gate that read _Purgatorie_, and watched in amazement, as it swung open for her progress through it. Tentatively, she walked through it, feeling herself being spurred on by an unknown force, a draw, a _want_, to go through the gates to discover whatever lay within. There seemed to be a path through the shadowy mist that she felt compelled to follow; there were high lumps of darkness about her that Ginny did not feel comfortable coming close to. She stuck to the middle of the path, treading slowly, deliberately. She watched where her feet fell, to make sure that she didn't step upon anything. It was only when she got too used to her surroundings that Ginny looked up from the ground, and promptly stepped into a small ditch; her left foot was caught on the lip of it and she pitched forward and to her side, falling face first into a lump of something.

She had closed her eyes for the impact, and wished she had instead held her nostrils shut; the stench close-up was far worse than the slight odor of before. She slowly opened her eyes and gave a startled gasp; she was looking straight into a paralyzed face, its eyes sunken deep within their sockets and the yellowing skin stretched beyond comprehension over the angular skull. The brown, cavity-filled teeth were garishly bared, the lips thinned from being stretched so; the hair was a rotted mat of tangles, overgrown and greasily black. Ginny was not sure if the creature, the… _thing_, was alive or dead; she struggled to get herself up to her feet again, and suddenly found it an impossible task.

Two hands, half the flesh missing to expose muscle and even bone, grabbed her upper arms and held her close to the thing she accidentally was laying upon. Its face grinned a horrid little sneer, the beady eyes so far into the skull glittering with a rock hard, icy cold disposition. The creature must have had vocal cords or if so not very advanced ones, because the rasp that was its voice was nearly indistinguishable from a low growl. Yet, through the static-like, hoarse rasp Ginny was able to make out the two words that comprised its message. "Help… me." Ginny swallowed hard, frightened to answer because she was afraid the thing would think any reply was consent to aid it; her lower lip trembled as a wave of shivers ran over her body, numbing her spine and making her far appendages tingle. She felt the hot prick of tears at the corners of her eyes, but refused to let them fall for her pride's sake.

Squirming in the thing's tight grasp, Ginny managed to twist its arm the wrong way, making it cry out in a short bark of pain. It let go, only for a split second, but Ginny took that as the opportune moment to escape its ironclad grip. She stood up and straightened herself out, patting down her clothes to get the filth of the creature off of her body, fussing with her hair as she soothed her crazed nerves and frayed courage. She looked around her and realized that she was unsure of which way had gotten her there and along which she was to continue going; each appeared no different than the other. She was utterly lost in a place she did not know surrounded by half-dead creatures who wanted her help, probably to escape, and worst off, she didn't even know how she got there or why in fact she was even in the place to begin with.

A worse mess Ginny could not remember being in. She took in a deep breath, glanced to both her sides, and then spontaneously chose to continue her journey down the right-hand path. It twisted and turned in directions she could not remember the original path going and so she decided she had chosen the correct way. Coming to yet another fork, she paused for only a moment before feeling something mentally pulling her toward the left fork; she hesitated, struggling against the force, but decided that going forward could not be any worse than going back. The fog was beginning to lift slightly, revealing more of the landscape about her. A chill ran down her spine as she realized she was completely surrounded on every side by the large clumps of… she didn't even know. She supposed they were undead, but what was keeping them from being fully dead?

Ginny chose not to worry herself over it and continued on, until she heard another voice, this time behind her. Immediately she froze, but this one was not like the sickening rasp she had heard the last time; it was instead somewhat familiar and smoother, lower and richer. Hearing it made her swallow hard, yet again. She sensed, however, that the voice she heard was not who she was looking for; rather, it belonged to a sinister being that she might want to avoid. Ginny picked up the pace, moving faster down the trail of corpses. She checked the faces of those around her, looking for anyone who seemed even remotely familiar; she wasn't sure what to look for, but she was positive it wasn't the creature behind her.

She heard footfalls, light and yet echoing, following her down the path. Terrified, she refused to look over her shoulder, and again began to move faster, this time adjusting her pace to a light jog. The mellow voice, smooth and seductive as it was, whispered to her on a breath that floated up to her ear. "I've found you, angel.." Ginny gave out a short shriek of fright and began to run in earnest, not looking or giving consideration to her choice of forks in the road.

Whatever it was it whispered to her again. "Wait for me, angel.." She kept on going, hoping that it wasn't catching up to her, hoping that she could make it out – or away – in time. It didn't even occur to Ginny that she was running away from the entrance, that she was running deeper into the depths of the place. As she turned a sharp bend in the path, the trail before her blocked by a high pile of bodies, she felt an arm snap out and grab her – a strong, muscled arm that pulled her close to the bodies, and a second hand that clapped over her mouth even as she screamed in terror.

She watched as a huge black… for lack of a better word, _monster_, kept on going past, unaware that she had been snagged. Regardless, Ginny continued to fight the arms, a tear falling down her cheek as she realized that this was the end… they had her now, and they'd hold her 'til the thing got there…

"Calm down!" the arms' owner said. She stopped short there, stopped all efforts to get away. Her voice died in her mouth, her arms fell limp to her sides. Sirius Black had saved her from the thing.

"Sirius!" Ginny breathed as he loosened his grip to let her turn around. She did just that, looking up into his face – his gruesomely ruined face. He looked just as bad, if not worse, as he had upon his escape from Azkaban; his hair matted, skin sallow and unwashed, eyes sunken and beady with wariness, body gaunt and weak.

"What are you doing here!?" he asked in a furious whisper, his eyes glinting with anger.

But she never got a chance to answer him. A shadow fell over them – Ginny saw his eyes go wide – he looked behind her with fear – and then something else snatched her around the middle – the something that she had run from.

Sirius watched as they rose into the air; Ginny and the Deofol. He held her firmly to his body as she writhed in his one armed grasp. The creature stroked her cheek with one hand, one slimy, bony clawed hand. As they rose into the air, her entire body seemed to shake with each beat of his enormous, black, dragon-like wings. He stared at her, she stared back, eye to eye. He watched as more tears began to fall from her eyes, helplessly stood there as he watched the Deofol take her away. The beast sneered at Sirius, put his enormous, revolting face next to her ear, and breathed something into it. There was nothing he could do; it was out of his hands now. Sirius slumped back against the pile of bodies he had once hid against, and le this head fall to his hands. He couldn't take the chance of getting caught – if he was, the Deofol would most likely take his soul, and he'd be just like every other lost corpse in the field. But neither could he let the beast have Ginny – she was his saviour, the one person who could get him out of this place and back where he belonged. He weighed his options.

Ginny's heart wrenched for him, and while she was completely repulsed by the thing holding her, she was at the same time seduced by the phrase he whispered in her ear. She didn't even understand what he had said – it was in Latin – but the inflection was purely sensual. They flew over the masses of the corpses, sometimes soaring high up, sometimes swooping down low. The Gothic gate came into view, still ominous as before. As they came down for a landing before it, out of the fog and in the corner of her eye Ginny saw a figure moving swiftly, low to the ground, on all fours.

_Padfoot_. With a loud snarl, he leapt into the air and attacked the beast's face over top of her head – with a violent shriek the creature let go of her, and fell backwards with the Grim-like dog upon him. Ginny's heart pounded in her chest, and she knew she couldn't take a chance to linger. She picked herself up from where she had fallen, and ran to the gate; it wouldn't budge. It was tightly closed against anything leaving; she had no choice but to start trying to scramble up and over it. Just as she reached the top, she heard a dog howl and a whimper in the aftermath. Looking back, she saw Sirius had changed back to human form – he was bloodied and near unconscious. Covered in bites, slashes and all sorts of deep wounds, he was so badly injured, she was sure he would live… and he was alone on the ground. The thing wasn't there…

And once again she felt its claws sink into the flesh of her stomach, this time breaking the first layers of skin and drawing blood… She unleashed a bloodcurdling scream of such magnitude, the air around her seemed to vibrate. The wound on her arm was throbbing and a blackness began to take over her skin, sprouting from the holes in her abdomen and spreading outward in an attempt to take over her entire body… then everything went black.


End file.
